The Flowing

The connection is always indirect…

Fern-leaved birds of paradise, their flowers soft, stilled fire;
Palm trees with their long, rough legs that walk the Earth's insides;
Wide hands work the sky their branches' shadows ink on paper
Rendering discernments evolving as the wind turns;
In the scent of silt, water is heard but seldom seen
Down curvatures of stone and rounded bends;
The locust holds its note inside one's throat like no man can;
And in everything, light inside, outside, in my eyes…

And this isn’t even what is alive!
This is only the realm
Of the visible,
Mere patterns of darkness and light,
Mute touchstones of joy and desire
For people who never know why,
Who only see blue in the sky…

The currents of life flow freely
In a stream of pristine consciousness
That holds somehow the whole
Together.

All that we have learned
Serves – vanishes before –
This knowing,
Which serves as consolation
For what we’ve yet to learn.